


Litte Bird - A Fairytale

by wrelicofwren



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fluff, Lovely OCs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:44:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrelicofwren/pseuds/wrelicofwren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little fairytale about a man who never leaves, and a bird who always returns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Litte Bird - A Fairytale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enaykin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enaykin/gifts), [Valka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valka/gifts).



> Amazing cover art below by Selydra, enjoy!
> 
> "I am lonely as a memory  
> Despite the gathering round the fire.  
> Aren't you every bird on every wire?
> 
> When the time comes,  
> And rights have been read,  
> I think of you often,  
> But for once I meant what I said." -  Lisa Hannigan, "Little Bird" 

Let me tell you the story of a man, and a bird. They say the man lived alone, as men are wont to do at times, and that he was kind in nature and deed. He lived in the cottage at the top of the hill, the one that has stood empty now for years and years, but once burned a welcoming fire in its hearth for any who wandered in to say hello, even on the coldest of winter nights.

They say it was one such evening that the man, who was in fact an elf, saw something strange beyond his window, a small dark thing struggling in the snow. A little bird with a broken wing. So he brought it inside and warmed it, and bound its wing to keep it. The bird did not want the help once the threat of cold had gone, and leapt from the man’s hand at every chance.

“There is no need to fear me,” The man would say when the bird finally tired, worried it would be hurt further. “Rest easy, little bird. I will care for you,” he swore. And when he next reached out, the bird did not run.

They say that man and bird lived together like this for a time. That the man would play music, and share food, and read stories to the amber-eyed bird as though it could understand. His friends thought it absurd. But the bird was quiet, and did not squawk or scream, and only ever regarded the man with a sharp gaze that said, ‘yes, I do understand’.

Then one day, as the snow began to fade but the ground was still hard, the man removed the bandage one final time. And the bird flew high, and higher still, before it came back down to meet him, landing on his palm. The man was pleased, but also sad because he had grown fond of it, but knew it should not stay.

“Remember me, little bird, and be well,” he told it, touching the rich chestnut feathers for what he thought was the last time. The bird did not move for a bit, looking at its caretaker. And then they say, the bird spoke.

“Thank you,” it said, before it flew away. And the man was shocked, but then he laughed, because he should have known. Who had ever said the bird could not speak? He told a few people who believed him, and a few who found it too far-fetched. But he kept the whole of the words for himself.

“Thank you,” it had said, “I will return soon.”

So the man waited for the promised ‘soon’ to arrive, in his cabin on the hill. The snow had gone and the grass returned, wildflowers speckling the landscape with colour and life. Then one mild morning, between quiet drops of chilly rain, a tapping came to his window. The bird had remembered, and the man could not have been more delighted.

“Little bird! What have you there?” The man asked when the bird laid a flower he had never seen before in his hand. Pale peach petals clear as glass and a supple stalk, he held it tenderly, like a precious treasure. And the bird shook free of the water clinging to him, and spoke for the second time.

“Your touch reminds me of spring anew. Delicate, and beautifully refreshing, it is unlike any other I’ve known. I have been to the distant plains, where flowers grow afresh in fields untainted by any hand. And from the earth I have brought you a gentle beginning. A sweet blossom of spring.”

The man looked at the life cut short in good intention, and felt sorry as he thanked the gift-giver. As he dried it by the fire, he wondered if it had lived enough in this place he would never see. Would a bee have drawn its pollen, or butterfly its nectar? Had the sun kissed it enough days that it would gladly pardon its wayward child? He wondered. Between the pages of a thick book, wrapped in a cloth, he placed the flower to rest.

They say the bird remained for a while, happy in the man’s company and telling tales of its travels. And at a week’s end, when the flower emerged from the book preserved in its loveliness, the bird left once more with the promise to return. Time passed, and the land grew warm, warmer, and hot. There had been no need for tapping, as the man sat near his entryway, seeking the absent midday breeze when the bird reappeared.

“Little bird, little bird. What have you brought me?” The man would greet with a smile when the bird alighted near him, relinquishing a spiral seashell. It shone in metallic swirls of pink and white and royal turquoise, and he held it aloft so it caught as much light as the heavens allowed while the bird spoke.

“Your eyes remind me of the summer sea. Sparkling in blues and greens, with enduring knowledge concealed beneath. I have been to the secluded coasts, where the waves crash like thunder against the sandy shore, but sometimes caress it like a lover. And from the sea I have brought you a remembered life. A lost shell of summer.”

The man welcomed the bird inside with cool water as he sought a needle and twine. He had never seen the ocean, but considered that the little shell had been a shelter, even a home. And a home was only such when there is someone, or something living in it, making it so. How its crevices and notches mattered to no one but the one who loved them. Though the occupant of this home was gone, the man would keep it for them; it would not remain lost.

The bird kept a keen watch as the man made himself a necklace. They say it saw the tremors in his hands even then, and the stiffness in his grip, but said nothing. It only lingered days longer than it had before, until the wind called too strongly and it left into the sky.

And so seasons changed, as they must, the air growing crisp and the sky greyer. Then one afternoon that held closer to bleak than balmy, the bird was back again. It came through an open window before the man realised, and was startled by the new scents. Willow and ginger, rosemary and pine, jars of herbs were scattered where they had not been before. And the man was sat amongst it all, tea in hand and smile on his face.

“Little bird, my little wonder. What have you brought me now?” A leaf was given to him, and the light of the hearth illuminated it prettily. Edged in a deep purple, the diamond-shaped leaf seemed to encompass every shade of orange it possibly could, from a scorched gold to a rusty sunset. And the man, who was wrapped in a woollen blanket to stave off the chill in his body, let the little bird explain.

“Your hair reminds me of autumn in bloom. Of warmth and change and firelight. I have been to the mountain forests, where the tallest trees grow silent and die only to live again. Oh, the grandeur of their sleep! And from the sky I have brought you a lesser death. A fragile leaf of autumn.”

The man could only stare at his gift as his eyes began to brim with tears. He felt a kinship to this leaf that was not yet dead but had no more use. He wondered if the tree would remember the leaf it had lost, that it had so depended on for its life once, when a new one grew in its place. Would it be missed? Would it be mourned? Of course not, it was a leaf. To whom would its story matter, but him and the bird? And he wept because he did not know.

The bird asked no questions as the man set about preserving the leaf in a mixture of water and something that was not. Its attention was held on the shell dangling from his neck still, and the flower marking a page in an open book.

“I am sorry, little bird, but you need not return after this time.” The man told him many days later, when he could not play the piano without stumbling, or read without tiring quickly. And they say, when asked why, the man told the bird of the pain. How it had set in at the end of spring and only grew worse with time. How it was everywhere, aching in his very bones, and nothing could be done for him. How he likely would not live to see the next spring.

“Then I will see you once more, in the heart of snowfall.” The bird was unwavering, and the man would never deny his beloved bird anything. So he agreed to wait for its return. Even as his friends came to cry at his bedside, and take away with them the possessions he chose to give, he waited. Even as the nights grew longer and colder, and the pain caused his joints to swell and stole his very breath from him, replacing it with blood, he waited.

Then one frigid evening, in the throes of fevered agony, there came the bird, tapping at his window. He rose from his bed, took one step, and another, and fell to the floor, unable to go any more as a fit of coughing tugged his life further and further away from him. There was a biting gust of wind, and he shivered in the draught until the window shut again, and warm arms held him up in a careful embrace.

The man, too weak to do much else, looked at the stranger holding him. But as he saw the other’s dawn-risen eyes, he knew in an instant. “My dear little bird…” The man rasped reverently, as he gazed at the beauty tethering him to this world. He matched the freckles of his arms to the speckles on his feathers, and reached out a trembling hand to touch his face and his halo of ruby-red hair.

“Name it, and I will give you anything you desire.” The voice he’d come to cherish said, but it came this time not from a bird but this man. And the man, whose name was Vaeyin, smiled through the tears of his pain and croaked out a few more words between graceless gasps.

“Oh, but the sight of you has always brought me such joy. I wish for little else than a moment more with you.” And the bird, whose name was Faycen, lifted the man as though he were no more than cotton fluff and placed him back into the bed among his pillows. How strong his little bird was indeed, yet his touch was a gentle balm against the weary ache. The man felt he could almost rest now. Almost sleep. And the bird whispered to him, little quiet words that blanketed him in their earnest affection.

“ ‘There is no need to fear me.’ This is what you said; one winter’s past I met you. And now, I am the one in fear. Just but one year I have known you, and I fear I have come to love you. All this time, I have watched you wither within yourself, and it saddens me as nothing ever has. You are ending, but this does not have to be. Know that I am not of your kind, but I have brought you this selfish gift, should you accept it. A cursed breath of winter, and an eternity with me.”

The man, Vaeyin, thought of very few things. He thought of the friends he’d said his goodbyes to already, and the house he’d left near empty save his few treasures. He thought of how tired he was, and the loneliness he felt in dying. Mostly, he thought of the little bird that had come back to him, faithfully. The bird who was also a man, who loved him and who he knew he loved in return.

“Yes,” the man would say. There, in the quiet night, the bird leant in, and kissed him.

And this may not be true, but they say that fire licked through his blood as the bird breathed magic into him, and his bones grew lighter as the spell took hold. They say a glow filled the cottage, leaking its brilliance through the windows before it faded away and the man emerged changed, but whole again. And some say their lips met again and again afterwards, affirming old fondness and newer desires.

What was true was that the man had simply gone one day, without a word or a sighting, and those who had known him mourned his passing. But some swear they had seen him, and that on that morning, two men had stood on the top of cabin roof, hand in hand, and two birds had soared off into the welcoming sunrise.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is one of my favourite things I've ever written. My tumblr is wrelic-of-wren ^^


End file.
